


esoteric words

by 님 (nymmiah)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Female Au Ra Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Gratuitous and self-indulgent as heck, Headcanons on Ishgardian Culture, Love at First Sight, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25422124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymmiah/pseuds/%EB%8B%98
Summary: The three characters upon Aymeric's arm were strange and alien, and yet, they depicted the name of the other half of his soul. [Soulmates AU]
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to get this out of my system. I don't know if I'll ever do anything with this or continue it.

Aymeric had not ever considered himself one of those whose marks bound him to an outlander—nevertheless one vaunted and renowned across Eorzea as the Warrior of Light.

He supposed that he should have; the name upon his arm had been unintelligible even to his well-read foster father's eyes.

 _Esoteric characters_ , his father had murmured when he had first beheld the name upon a youthful Aymeric's arm, _so shielded from our understanding by Halone Herself._ His father had led them into a prayer at that moment, thanking Her for Her grace that She would so touch Aymeric and his soul's other half.

It seemed that his father had been correct.

He found himself staring, fixated, at the name at the front of her neck that matched the one that he had bore as a bairn, and found no words came to mind.

 _Aymeric Greystone_ , it read in an elegant script that matched his own hand, circling her throat like a choker. A name that he had not seen in decades since he had been legitimised as his foster father's sole heir.

Before him, Ser Haurchefant looked far too knowing, though the two Scions before him looked nervous at his silence, stunned as it was.

The young elezen, Alphinaud Leveilleur, held himself up with a pomp that was so typical to young lads. It was a facade, a well-constructed one. His silence wore at the guise until the boy's expression cracked into one of overt self-consciousness. The Warrior, on the other hand...

"I… forgive me. I remembered something that must have distracted me. Let us return to the matter at hand…” Aymeric stated. “Commander Leveilleur. It is both an honour and a pleasure to meet you. I am Aymeric, Lord Commander of the Temple Knights.”

Alphinaud was swift to respond. And so they began to speak on the matter of Garlemald and Ishgard's reticence concerning her Eorzean neighbours, and of the primals that threatened to upset the delicate balance of the world at large. The Coerthan highlands, as it was, was untouched by Garleans and primals alike. The Holy See cared not to interfere with matters that remained laying when untouched--a stance that Aymeric, personally, did not care for.

But he could do naught for it.

The boy's passionate anger was understandable, for all that it was misguided: he was as ambitious as Aymeric had been at his own age, with all of the blindness that came with inexperience.

However, it was not the young Leveilleur that held his attention. Through it all, Warrior of Light, vaunted warrior she, was a sight that he could not tear his eyes from.

Upon her head hidden and nestled within thick purple hair lay a crown of horns, and scales covered her neck and countenance as if to hide her skin from his wandering gaze. She was coloured deep grey, almost blue in the low light of the intercessory. She was _dragon-touched_ , much like the whispers of the land had said, alien with her glowing eyes and claw-tipped fingers. At the base of her spine swayed a scaled tail, the end of which bore thorns.

Serpentine with her sinuous limbs, she was the very picture of heresy that he had been raised to abhor. And yet, she was lovely to his eyes. Though how much of her loveliness came as a result of his name upon her skin, and how much of it came from her legendary feats--that remained to be discovered.

The Warrior was delicate, a figure that was far too small to be that of the legend she already was. A woman who barely reached his collar in height, yet having felled primals singlehandedly.

Entranced by her guise, Aymeric startled when the intercessory was invaded by a breathless sentry, who spoke of heretics that stole away the supplies that he had only just promised the Scions.

And it became evident why they had stolen them away.

The Warrior's eyes had widened when Alphinaud explained what the heretics' actions implied, outrage painting her countenance with a fierce glow. It was the rage of dragons in hyur form, as deep and eternal; she was majestic in her fury.

When the Scions took their leave to race after the heretics that had stolen their crystal, Ser Haurchefant came to him despite the urgency of their plight, eyes sparkling with an unknown delight.

It came to mind the near-manic scrawl upon the letter that invited him to Camp Dragonhead, the inexplicable satisfaction that had laced his written word as he had written the words, _the Warrior of Light was certain a sight to behold. I would have you behold her too, and to discover for yourself her deeds and her person._

He had indeed beheld her.

"--Not a word, Ser Haurchefant," Aymeric interrupted ere the knight could speak. "We must away to Whitebrim."

The knight's laughter followed him as he departed for the stables.

* * *

There had been no opportunity since their first meeting to approach the Warrior in privacy. Not for the lack of wishing for it ; the knights and staff manning the Camp had certainly been aware of his subtle attempts to learn more of the Warrior--and of the reason why.

His name was so prominently carried upon the Warrior's throat; a striking sight to any elezen of Coerthas. To be soul-bonded to a bastard, though prominent now he may be, was often deemed more a curse than a blessing.

His bastard origin was no secret among the knights of Ishgard, but as of yet, the Scions were blind to it.

He had learned from Haurchefant that the Warrior was what was considered _au ra_ , a race that hailed from Othard. He had read of the race before, but had not connected the descriptions of hyur-like men with curved horns and scales as dark as night or as bright as day with the delicate Warrior of Light. The script upon his arm was of Othard, and unless he were able to find some form of tome to aid in translation, he would have no hope of knowing what her name was.

The Warrior of Light was what was called _xaela_ , for her scales dotted her skin black constellations, and she was of quiet disposition, choosing deeds over words wherever possible. He had yet to hear her speak, though her hums of affirmation hinted at a gentle voice.

He learnt of naught else, not her name which he had so desperately wished to know, even as he watched her deeds grow in number and her renown grow, even in the heart of Ishgard.

And soon came a day wherein the Warrior returned to the intercessory, her form yet covered in delicate spirals of ice and her lips blue from cold, triumphant in her defeat of the heretic saint Shiva.

"My lady," he called out.

She turned not.

"Warrior," he corrected quietly, hurried, as the Scions moved to take leave of the intercessory. In the young Leveilleur's hand was the results of his men’s investigations; the impatience in his step was more than evident to Aymeric's eyes. The au ra paused in her exit of the room, and looked at him with askance in her gaze. "I would speak with you, in private," he added when Alphinaud too turned.

"Warrior?" Alphinaud asked, when the Warrior spoke not as she thought over Aymeric's request.

She faced the youthful elezen, and nodded once. "Go, Alphinaud. I will be fine. Why don't you join Ser Haurchefant for some hot cocoa in the kitchens?" She suggested, her voice as gentle as Aymeric had believed it to be. "It will be a long while until we could ever return here, and I have yet to see chocolate served anywhere else in such great abundance."

"Tis not I that is so fond of chocolate… but I shall do as you say. Don't take so long, Warrior. We must needs return to Rising Stones as soon as possible." Alphinaud's lips had curled into a wry smile, and the elezen departed shortly after.

This left Aymeric and the Warrior alone, save for Lucia's quiet and discreet presence.

"Lucia, if you would…" He requested vaguely, and his right-hand immediately understood. Straightening up, she departed with a smart salute, leaving the intercessory.

"Ser Aymeric," the Warrior stated firmly. She had crossed her arms across her chest, a vague thread of anxiousness making itself known on her countenance. "You have me alone. What was it that you wanted to discuss?"

Aymeric wondered how she viewed this: a man, self-admitted to be fascinated by her deeds, having her alone in his presence. For all of her prowess and myth, her delicate form seemed lacking the strength to defend herself should he be base enough to attempt anything. He intended not to test this, to _never_ test this, but yet, that insidious thought remained.

He shook his head, rebuking the unintentional sin of his thoughts. "It is nothing so devious, my lady. I merely wished to speak with you on the matter of your soul mark."

The Warrior frowned. "Soul mark?" She asked.

"Yes. Those words on your neck."

She raised her fingers to touch his name. Despite her inability to see the words, she traced its every curve perfectly, an action born out of practice. She murmured something in a language he knew not, and he knew it to be the word that she understood the soul mark to be.

"Do you know what it says?" He asked leadingly.

"I can read not Ishgard's script, solely the common hand of Eorzea. Ser Haurchefant, however, has been kind enough to translate it for me." She stated. "Aymeric Greystone."

There was a gleam in her eyes, curious about his question. Surely by now, she had seen some form of connection between his question and the name.

Aymeric closed his eyes momentarily, tilting his head forward as he sent a silent prayer to Halone. He prayed for Her mercy; he prayed for Her grace; he rolled back his gambeson, revealing the intricate and unknown name on his skin for her to see.

By her gasp, she understood exactly.

Her eyes, glowing amber in the light of the intercessory, hungrily viewed the name, and she looked up at him.

"Aymeric Greystone…?" The Warrior asked him.

He lowered his arm, the sleeve of his gambeson unraveling to cover his skin once more. "Yes. That had once been my name, though I carry now the name of house Borel."

The Warrior looked at him with wonder upon her countenance. "Do you know how my name is said?" She asked, her genteel voice even more gentle.

Upon the shaking of his head, she murmured out her name in all of its strange, foreign syllables. The three characters upon his arm corresponded to different sets of sounds, she explained. “I am from Doma. Or at least, that is how I understand my origins to be. I lack much of my memories of my past,” she added wryly.

“It must be difficult,” Aymeric remarked. The burden of not knowing one’s past was unimaginable. Ishgard and her peoples were bound by their past, of their distant ancestors and recent forebears.

The Warrior shrugged, tipping her head to the side. Her hair, now revealed to curl in gentle waves, had slipped out of the tight weave she had kept it in to shroud one of her shoulders. "... I thought that I would not know you until I had fought my way into Ishgard proper," the Warrior admitted. "By my hand, or with the help of mine allies, I would have stormed the gates if they would not let me in."

"Then it is fortunate that you did not have to," Aymeric replied. Her strength in depriving the awakening of another primal, a primal who would have slaughtered his men by the hundreds, made it obvious that her words were no empty threat. “By some stroke of luck of fate, we have come to know one another.”

She looked up at him, and in the light of the candles, her black horns cast deep and sharp shadows across her fair features. Her lips were set into a smile, setting her features into something lovely. The sharp jut of her teeth caught the light of the candles.

"... It is no wonder, then, why I have been watched so carefully by the knights here since we first met." The Warrior then said. "They know you, and they know your name. And they saw it on my skin."

Aymeric nodded, and for a while, they were silent. He could think not of a topic to speak upon, and judging by her contemplative countenance, she wished not to speak. She reached up, touching his name with a delicate stroke of her fingertips. 

Aymeric called her name, hesitantly for fear of those strange syllables failing upon his tongue. She raised her eyes, and they gleamed bright.

"Forgive me if this is too forward of me, but I would ask you of what you would expect out of this," he stated firmly. “In Ishgard… the Holy See views pairs bonded by such names as sacrosanct. It is claimed that Halone Herself has blessed such a pair, and that they are tied together under the eyes of the Twelve, be their relationship familiar or not. Ere you depart for Revenant's Toll once more, I would know what you would ask of me, knowing now that we carry each other’s names.”

The Warrior paused.

“Ishgard has a reputation for inhospitality to outsiders.” She remarked. “Would even friendship be wise, Ser Aymeric?”

Unspoken was the comment that she, in particular, would be particularly alien with her dragon-like features. She wore the face of their most hated enemy, given hyur form. It would be most unwise to pursue anything more with the Warrior of Light--and yet...

And yet.

“You have shown yourself to be a worthy ally to Ishgard,” Aymeric replied firmly. “One whose acts of might against heretics and Dravania are undeniable. If I could not call one such as you my friend, then would I be surrounded by enemies both within and without the walls of Ishgard.”

“I see.” The Warrior’s smile was radiant. “Then I would be proud to call you friend, Ser Aymeric. One could never have enough friends in the world. As for what I expect from our relationship…” She trailed off. “Who could say what the future holds? It would be folly to detail everything that we should be at this moment in time.”

Aymeric inclined his head, smiling in response. “A most reasonable suggestion.”

They stood there, smiling at one another--but time was not on their side. He could hear the sharp rap of knuckles against the door of the intercessory, a subtle call from Lucia’s part. The Warrior blinked in surprise at the sound, lifting her chin up to look at the door.

“I should allow you to rejoin Commander Leveilleur,” he murmured. “It has been a pleasure talking with you, my lady. Fare you well, Warrior of Light.”

Her glance at him from the corner of her narrowed eyes was warm. “My best wishes go with you too, one who holds half of my heart.”

And with those words, she left the room.

Stricken dumb, he stared at her departing form--and even Lucia’s quiet concern could stop not the flush that rose up his neck, colouring his countenance and ears pink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I forgot Aymeric doesn't wear vambraces like the monkey brain that I am.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brain bunny is multiplying.

His admiration for his other half grew by the day, and it seemed that it had shifted to ardour without his realisation.

Absence, it seemed, had a way of growing one’s affection for another, stoking the simmering coals of affection that had once been content to burn itself away quietly into an all-consuming flame that licked and seared.

In his office, in the depths of night, he found himself tracing the Doman characters upon his forearm that made up the Warrior’s name, and he would taste those sibilant syllables upon his tongue. He reasoned that with practice would familiarity come, and he could one day call her name out without hesitance.

Lucia, ever-faithful, guarded these secret moments well.

Her triumph against Vishap upon the Steps of Faith had been the very act he needed to begin convincing the House of Lords of her selflessness and honour, that the Warrior of Light was to be trusted as a friend of Ishgard. Houses Haillenarte, Durendaire and Fortemps had been most receptive to his quiet words, no doubt a result of her tireless actions for the benefit of Ishgard, Dzemael less so.

He spoke less of the Warrior to the Holy See, unsure of talking, or perhaps  _ unwilling _ to talk, about the au ra to the Archbishop beyond an objective description of her deeds. The Archbishop had been most interested in the descriptions of the Warrior having managed to slay an Ascian and therein did Aymeric spy an opportunity for the Warrior’s invitation to the city proper.

The Warrior was an enemy to the Garlean empire, and the slayer of primals and Ascian alike. Surely the Archbishop would be able to see the merit of extending citizenship, if not the title of an honoured ally, to the Warrior.

And so, when notice came from Ul’dah’s sovereign of a banquet they wished to hold in his Warrior’s honour, he had swiftly accepted it.

He would admit that one of the main reasons for accepting the invitation had been vanity, sin though it might be. He had wished to see the Warrior’s countenance as he announced his intention of bringing Ishgard into the Eorzean Alliance, as her young comrade had so passionately argued for, and to see if it would bring her any measure of delight.

As it turned out, that night would be naught but despair.

The untimely arrival of Dravanian hordes had kept him from being able to defend the Warrior against the happenings of that night.

And with the Warrior’s disappearance, naught could be done to calm the rage that swelled like a storm within his heart. Slander and lies—he had so earnestly vouched for the Eorzean Alliance for them to reveal themselves to be as treacherous as the very heretics that Ishgard fought against.

For Ul’dah to accuse the Warrior of Light of regicide, and to find that the Crystal Braves had turned against their commander: it was inexcusable. To then claim their disappearances as proof of their guilt, with neither the La Noscea nor Gridania to speak a word in favour of their innocence… It proved clearly how they valued selflessness and service to the realm.

It had been solely for Lucia’s presence that he had refrained from uncharacteristic recklessness and lack of forethought to censure the Eorzean Alliance publicly.

The Warrior was yet accounted for, she reminded him, and only upon securing the Warrior and her safety could he then decide what would come.

Lucia had been right. She tended to be correct in most cases. And so, he awaited for House Fortemps and their knights to bring word of the Warrior, and he busied himself with meeting with the House of Lords and the Archbishop both.

For when they finally found the Warrior of Light, he would have Ishgard ready to accept the Warrior’s presence within her walls, and afford her and her companions ever honour they could spare.

* * *

Ever thoughtful, Ser Haurchefant had informed him of the exact hour that the Warrior would cross the Gates of Judgement. He had stood there since the bell previous to that very hour—and when he saw three figures cross the Steps of Faith, he strode forth to meet them.

The Warrior’s countenance was all he could focus upon when he was finally within arm’s reach. For all the ice and forced stolidity etched into her skin, she was lovely—lovelier, for having survived all that she had. He could care not for the young Leveilleur and the lalafell beside them, not with the heartbreak so clearly having marred his soul’s half.

It became all the more evident when they removed their hoods, revealing their countenances in full.

It would not be proper for him to take hold of her face and to kiss the tears from her eyes; it would not be proper to embrace her tightly to ward off her grief. She was not his to touch, even with his name so scrawled across her skin.

He must needed settle for watching her, and waiting for her words.

She did not speak; her elezen companion did. The cold left Alphinaud’s voice reedy and trembling involuntarily, for all that he was bundled in numerous layers of cloth.

“Ser Aymeric! Lord Haurchefant was most emphatic in telling us of your influence in allowing us into the city proper,” Alphinaud said, attempting his best not to cross his arms to effect at politesse. “You have our most sincere gratitude. Though I cannot help but wonder about our status as fugitives—?”

Aymeric shook his head. “Worry not on that, my friends. The laws of the Eorzean Alliance affects Ishgard not, and you have had the most staunch of allies to claim your innocence within her walls. You are welcome allies, and you will be offered a home here, as befitting of your status.”

It was then that the lalafell, Tataru if he recalled correctly, spoke. “We are here as wards of House Fortemps… Lord Haurchefant said that a manservant of the house would meet us?”

“He spoke incorrectly,” Aymeric stated. “I have conferred with the Count and it was agreed that it should be I that welcomes you into the city proper. Please, follow me. It would be most inhospitable to not invite you indoors. I doubt you would like to linger out here in the snow for much longer,” he added, even as Alphinaud trembled overtly from head to toe.

With one last glance at the silent au ra, he led them to the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly where a warm hearth awaited. As they walked through the wooden doors into the keep, he could hear audible sighs of relief.

Once ensconced in the privacy of his office, Aymeric looked at the three shivering persons in front of him. Lalafell, elezen and au ra, each bearing the marks of grief and wear, rugged from their flight from their homeland. The Warrior’s turmoil was well-hidden, while the lalafell’s was open for all to see.

“Worry yourselves not with keeping face,” Aymeric bade, even as Alphinaud’s countenance crumpled ever so slightly. “You are among allies now, and you shall be safe within these walls.”

It was then that his soul’s mate broke her silence.

“Ser Aymeric,” the Warrior called out, gentle voice roughened from the events of the past sennight. “I cannot express just how…  _ glad _ I am that you are here. I thank you, a thousand times over.” She reached out, holding her hand out for him to take. Her fingers shook in the air in a far cry from her usual stability, revealing just how shaken she was from it all.

He said her name, softly, coming forth to take her hand within his own. Small and slender, his own hand could wrap around her palm with laughable ease. “I could not describe how it warms my heart that you are safe,” he responded quietly. “I would rather see to your continued safety over receiving any endless amount of gratitude.”

Her eyes met eyes, and the amber light that had once shone from them had been replaced with a dull grey. There was dust yet touching her skin, and dried traces of blood matting her hair and horns.

"I thank you again, regardless." The Warrior's lips curled into a smile, weak though it was. "It could not have been easy to secure our passage."

She had come straight from Camp Dragonhead, from whatever horrors she had experienced during her flight from Ul'dah.

To the side, he could see the confusion upon Alphinaud and Tataru’s countenances, but he bore them no mind. Instead, he squeezed the Warrior’s hand within his own, and brought it to his lips. He kissed gently the scales that covered her knuckles, paying no mind to the unknown dirt that clung to her skin, bowing his head to hide the sudden burn in his eyes.

Worry fled his heart, leaving only a relief that burned from his heart to his marrow. She was alive; she was in Ishgard. His soul's mate was with him. He raised his head.

"Whatever struggles I have been through pale in the face of yours. Regardless, to allow host the Warrior of Light and the Scions of the Seventh Dawn in Ishgard is my utmost honour."

He then let go of her hand, having lingered long enough for the gesture to become improper, and he turned to the other two.

Tataru’s eyes were wide, and Alphinaud had the shrewdest expression upon his countenance. Aymeric was certain that the youth had figured out Aymeric’s careful attention for the Warrior, but cared not: her fellow Scions were not the ones from which he had to keep his secrets.

“On behalf of the Holy See and House Fortemps, allow me to formally invite you to the city of Ishgard,” Aymeric began, smiling at the Scions. “The heart and pride of Eorzea, some would claim, as it is the seat of the Holy See dedicated to the Fury, Halone. Though you three may be outsiders, it is my hope, as well as House Fortemps’, that you will soon come to think of this city as your home.

“As much as I would have liked otherwise… as wards of House Fortemps, you will be afforded far more leniency than would be afforded should you have been my guests,” he said apologetically. “You would be treated as any of their house should be, with respect and honour as befits one of the Four Houses that rule Ishgard. You will also take residence within their home, though should it behoove you, you may also stay within any other establishment or house that is open to you. Such as at the inn,” he was quick to add, when Alphinaud parted his lips to speak. “When you have warmed the chill from your bones, I shall have Lucia guide you to the Fortemps manor, where you will be introduced to the Count.”

“... Of course, Ser Aymeric,” Alphinaud said after a moment’s thought, evidently having thought better than to continue with whatever remark had crossed his mind. “You have been most generous. Vouching for our innocence, vouching for our passage into the city… vouching for the Warrior of Light in particular,” he added, though his tone was not as sly as Aymeric had anticipated.

In this matter, the elezen was not as youthful as expected, deriving not much amusement from the thought of anything lying between himself and the Warrior. In fact, he sounded almost defensive,  _ disapproving _ of Aymeric.

Had he been any older, and his veneer any less youthful, he could have been mistaken for a member of the Warrior's family, disapproving of suitors and friends alike.

“Quiet, Alphinaud.” The au ra spoke up, her hand rising to touch his name upon her neck. The grey of her eyes lit from within by some unknown cause, lending her an air most visceral. “I would have him vouch for me, and I would do so proudly. Do not interrogate him as if he were some criminal.”

Alphinaud was quiet again, “I see. In that case, allow me to congratulate you on finding your named other,” he said, even as Tataru took in a mighty gasp and leaped to her feet.

"So it  _ is _ Ser Aymeric that it speaks of?!" Tataru exclaimed, her voice far more powerful than her slight form would have suggested.

The Warrior glanced over at him, even as Tataru surged forth with questions bubbling forth just as rapidly, demanding answers that the Warrior patiently gave. The smile she sent him, small yet sincere, was balm to the worry that had plagued him so.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the rating. Whoops.  
> This has turned into mild divergence from canon.

The antics that the Warrior was capable of getting up to would surely cause him to go grey. For all her might and prowess, he could scarce believe that she had been able to survive all that she had, whether it was singlehandedly defeating even more primals summoned by the beast tribes of Dravania, encountering the _Emperor of Garlemald_ of all persons in the Sea of Clouds, or scouring the lands with Estinian and Lady Iceheart herself to parlay with dragons.

In the aftermath of the heretic’s attacks on their city, he sat with the Warrior in his office. Estinien was a silent phantom behind her, his every ilm covered in a crimson that Aymeric wished little to know of, and only the thin line of his stern mouth betraying his discomfort.

She was still slick with blood garnered from her venture into the Aery, and her countenance betrayed her exhaustion in the darkened lines under her eyes.

Hearing her recount the slaying of Nidhogg by Estinien’s side, followed by her hushed explanations for Ishgard’s hidden truths—he sat back upon his haunches, stunned into silence.

For all the au ra's draconic appearance, it was he that was so filled with his enemy's blood.

Dragon’s blood ran in the veins of all of Ishgard’s elezen. Highborn or lowborn, knight or pauper, they had all descended from the Knights Twelve. Had this not come from the mouths of his soul’s half and a trusted companion of his, he would have rejected such tales as heresy and fearmongering.

This was truth, and he had to confront the source of the lies that had so shrouded the eyes of all of Ishgard.

“This state of affairs cannot be allowed to continue. I must away to the Vault at once,” he stated, standing to his feet and grabbing Naegling from his desk. “I must needs ask the Archbishop if he had known the truth all along—and hid it from us all.”

Behind him, Lucia shifted--but he could see not what her reaction to his words were.

“No you will not!” The Warrior hissed, grabbing his arm. For all her calm, she had suddenly burst out with a fearsome temper, one that was enough to startle him from his resolution. Her tail lashed in agitation, causing her chair to fall backwards with a loud crash. “You have only just fought off an attack on the city, and you have yet to properly process the truth!”

Estinien shared in her opinion, derisively remarking, "In this chaos, outcries for truth will be twisted into evidence of heresy, and t'will result in your death. There will be no need for a trial. You will be clapped in irons at best." It was only for their many years of acquaintance that allowed him to discern the alarum in Estinien's words.

Nevertheless, he continued.

“This is not a matter that can wait!” Aymeric was swift to exclaim, detailing his reasons why he had to go. “This war will never truly be at an end until the truth is made known to all.” Their very culture could not last with the death of Nidhogg—it would not be long until Ishgard became the centre of civil warfare and revolt.

However, his soul’s half was far more tenacious than he expected and cared not for his reasons. “It can wait one night,” she affirmed. Her grip was unrelenting on his wrist, her hand covering his arm where her name lay. “You—and I, and Estinien too—must recover from the day’s toils.”

Her countenance was set in a stubborn frown, but her eyes… they pleaded with him. There was no other way to describe the way she looked at him. He was worn down by her silent pleas, and he set Naegling down once more.

“Very well. I shall go in the morning,” he stated.

He was gratified by her lack of protest and by the victorious smile upon her lips.

Estinien let out a scoff of disgust. "This is a fool's errand, Lord Commander, whether you go this very instance or in the morrow."

"But try I must. If there is even a chance that the Holy See had been unaware of such deception, I must needs see it." Aymeric replied, shaking his head. "If there lies even the slightest chance that I may persuade the Holy See to change its course, I must needs take it. A divided Ishgard will not survive." 

"Of course you would," Estinien's words had become a snarl, full of an impotent rage at Aymeric's steady course. "You and your buggering need to be purer than the cloth the priestly pricks wear. Fine! Go to the Vault in the morrow, and speak to their deaf ears until they take the axe to your thick head and piss on your corpse!"

"Aymeric will not die," the Warrior stated, interrupting Estinien in his tirade. "I will not allow it. I would sooner gut myself by my own hand. If Aymeric so wishes to speak with the Archbishop, he shall. But would I storm the Vault mineself and tear its stones down with mine own arms should they touch a hair upon his head."

It was here that Estinien paused, and his lips twisted; the sole sign that some peculiar expression had crossed his features.

The implication there that Aymeric would somehow be reduced to a damsel in need of rescue chafed at his pride, but he had never seen the Azure Dragoon subside so quickly, deferring to the Warrior.

"Aye. I suppose you would, the mad woman that you are," Estinien remarked. "When we march on the Vault, would I join you." His words implied his resolute belief in Aymeric's failure to reason with the Holy See--but there was something else to be derived from his statement.

Aymeric was, in the eyes of Ishgard’s Azure Dragoon and the Warrior of Light, worthy of treason.

“As would I,” Lucia’s voice rose to join their chorus, and Aymeric could help not the smile that formed upon his lips. When he glanced over at Lucia, faithful and steadfast she, her countenance was grim with no hint of repentance. “Forgive me, Lord Commander. I could not stand aside while others stand in your defence.”

No, she truly could not. Aymeric sighed, defeated by the shared purpose of the three in front of him. "In that case... Let us confer once more in the morrow at the Fortemps manse. Our allies, few though they may be, deserve to know my designs and reasons," Aymeric suggested. “Then shall I leave for the Vault.”

Estinien let out a snort. “That may have been the only reasonable thing you have said to-night. We shall be in need of allies when we must drag your arse out of the Vault.”

“ _Thank you,_ Estinien.”

* * *

Despite this promise, the Warrior followed him to the Borel manor, and not to the House of Fortemps as he had expected. When questioned, she replied succinctly: “I am ensuring you keep your promise of leaving in the morn.”

He avoided the knowing stares of his staff and retainers as he led the Warrior through the front door to his manse, asking a maid to lead the Warrior to one of the wash closets to wash the blood and grime from herself, and asking of another to secure clothing for the Warrior to dress into once she was done.

There was no helping the curiosity that the Warrior's presence elicited, and they had surely seen the name upon her neck. No doubt by now, there were whispers spreading amongst the maids, whether it concerned the Warrior's alien appearance or the soul mark at her throat. Discretion, no matter how well he paid his staff, was hard to come by.

He washed himself swiftly, intent on heading to the kitchens to secure himself some manner of food--and perhaps make for the Warrior a meal.

Yes, that seemed a good choice of action.

* * *

Aymeric had only just emerged from the kitchen when the Warrior rejoined him, her hair yet wet and scandalously unbound in the presence of a man to whom she was not wedded, bonded though they may be by Halone's will.

He found his throat dry as he stared at her countenance, dumbstruck by the image she posed.

For all her ferocity in battle and the draconic aesthetic of her horns and scales, domesticity became of her, as did the thought of marriage.

She seemed to be oblivious to the suggestion that lay in the way her hair fell over her shoulders and down her back, leaving wet trails on the silken dress that she wore.

From the vague familiarity that the dress elicited upon a second glance, he came to the understanding that it was an article of clothing that most likely his foster mother had once worn. It was far too large for the au ra, however, and threatened to fall loose from her form. Her tail was unseen save for the strange bump in fabric; the clothes of elezen fit not an au ra's form at all.

It would have been simple to rectify the impropriety of her image--a belt at her waist, the braiding of her hair… However, Aymeric, selfish and base in his desires, asked not for a retainer to sort her out. Try as he might, the Lord Commander of Temple Knights was not immune to temptation.

She was breathtaking before him.

She pushed hair from her countenance, tucking it around her horns. Her cheeks appeared flushed from the warmth of the bath, though it was hard to tell with the deep colour of her skin.

"I have prepared a meal for us." Aymeric said, when his voice had returned to him. "Would you care to join me?"

The demure nod of her head had him lead them to the dining hall. A manservant soon came out, laden with small dishes covered by cloche. The man's eyes were carefully averted from the Warrior's indecent state, but she paid no mind to the behaviour of those around her. She cared not, it seemed, for Ishgardian propriety. Her mind was fixed upon the food in front of her.

The meal was simple; Aymeric had not the time to prepare anything more complex than poultry fricasse served with bread.

His soul's half picked through her meal, yet unfamiliar with the fare in Ishgard. Even the cutlery seemed unfamiliar to her, and he guided her through the use of the various utensils laid out in front of her. She ate slowly, spearing small morsels with her fork, and occasionally asked him what a piece was.

For a day of such excitement, it was a rather soothing affair to pretend as if, even if just for an evening, nothing had changed in Ishgard.

Gratifying, even, that she was finally ensconced within his home and dining with him. Her hair had dried as they spoke, and she had bundled it all up onto one shoulder, leaving the other uncovered.

The robe had slipped off that shoulder, and he could not hold her gaze for more than a few heart beats, so distracted by the black scales like constellations upon her skin. They trailed down her shoulders, disappearing under silk; how much farther did they descend?

... Oh, Halone preserve him, that he would be able to come through this trial with grace. Mayhap it was final test ere his departure to the Vault, where he would confront the Archbishop. To resist temptation, to keep himself from grievous sin such as his forefathers had committed before him...

"Did you made this?" She asked suddenly.

Aymeric was taken aback by the question. Had he not already announced that he had?

"Yes, I did," he admitted.

Her smile in response was filled with teeth. From across the table, he could see how sharp her canines were, and how pearly they were against the deep grey of her skin. "It is delicious. The Lord Commander is talented indeed."

Aymeric could feel fluster arise once more in the form of a flush upon his skin.

"Nay, t'was nothing," he replied. "It is a simple enough fare, hardly anything to praise." It was not so much modesty that had him speak so depreciatingly as it was self-consciousness.

She reached out a hand across the table, and like a moth to flame, he followed suit. Their fingers touched and slid over one another. She held onto him tightly.

A fierce look painted her fair countenance. "You are the one who holds half of my heart. You are worthy of my praise, Ser Aymeric."

How could his heart not burn with ardour for her? Stricken once more by her emphatic words, he could only tighten his grip upon her hand in response.

She then relaxed, smiling at him once more. Her touch upon his hand became softer, more akin to a caress than a grip, and she released his hand soon thereafter.

"Warrior of Light," he murmured quietly. Her hand had been warm against his, and as befitting of Coerthas' eternal winter, the sensation leached away from his palm. "Slayer of Nidhogg. Saviour of Eorzea, countless times over. I suppose it would be fitting that you should also carry the title of judge and arbiter, especially of my worth."

"If it brings you any manner of comfort or joy, I shall be so." She replied, buttressing her chin upon her small hand. "You are fierce, shrewd and powerful, Ser Aymeric of house Borel, and I could be no less proud that the man with my heart's half is someone such as you. I had always hoped that my other heart would be kind, but I have been blessed with that and far more than I could have dreamt."

Aymeric had imbibed no wine that night, but felt as if intoxicated by her voice, by her words.

He murmured her name, and her eyes glowed from across the table, answering his call with his own name.

"Aymeric?" She asked.

There was a thrall she cast upon him with her eyes alone. Defenceless, he was enraptured by his soul's complement, his Halone-granted wish.

Aymeric said her name once more, softer still. She tilted her head, and her riotous curls tumbled down the sides of her countenance. There was a smile that grew upon her lips once more; the jagged spike of her teeth adding a sly undertone to the sweet look upon her countenance.

She humoured him once more. "Aymeric."

Hers was a sultry image, temptation incarnate with the smooth lines of her neck and shoulder on display for his eyes, and the syllables of his names on her lips and throat.

In that moment, he desperately wished to take hold of her chin and kiss her.

And the third time her name fell from his mouth, she called for him, and she removed her hand from her chin. "Aymeric. Am I to be a prayer upon your lips until I come to you?"

Aymeric could not reply under the weight of her gaze, taking in a sharp breath at her words. The flash of heat in his gut left a searing mark, and he burned for her, burned with a relentless desire that could not be sated.

He curled his fingers into fists, and looked down, unable to bear the sight of her. She was near predatory with her lidded gaze, indulgence and indolence a promise in those grey eyes.

“It is late,” he stated, voice cracking from the dryness of his throat. “Mayhap it is time for us to retire for the night.”

Movement in the corner of his vision had him looking up once more. She had risen to her feet, and crouched over the table, her hands planted flat against the wood.

“Mayhap we should,” she agreed quietly. “But I would have you make clear for me a single matter: are you not seducing me, my lord?”


	4. Chapter 4

Her question remained in the air, lingering between them almost as if a palpable weight.

“I asked you once what you would expect from our entwined bond." Aymeric began, taking hold of his verre of water and sipping at it, attempting to quench the dryness of his throat. Nervousness, fear, worry; they plagued him with greater violence the longer the Warrior continued to gaze on, watching him. "From the beginning of our acquaintanceship, I admired you deeply. A true friend, undeniably and wholly. Yet now, I fear I must admit that I feel far more than friendship for you."

“So you are, indeed, attempting it,” she murmured. “Seduction.”

The word suggested solely carnality. He wanted far more than that, less so the smoothness of her skin and the slightness of her form, and more so the return of his ardour. She was his soul’s half, and he would give her the rest of it, if only she would accept it.

“... Yes, but not intentionally.” Aymeric corrected. “You are the hand of the Mother Crystal, Her chosen soldier, and you have saved my people a hundred times over. Someone like you deserves far more than I have to give. I have naught, save for the name of a house minor and the pressures of my nation to offer you--but I love you. I cherish you dearly. If it were at all possible, if—if you were at all amenable to it… I would ask for your hand in mine."

His chest was near-sore from the pounding pace of his heart, its violent thrumming between his ribs. Such honesty chafed at his heart; he was vulnerable as if naked before her.

The Warrior rose to her feet fully, and she stepped around the table, each pace she took slow and measured. Aymeric was all too aware of her approach, of the intent in her eyes. The grey of her eyes were clouds sparking with levin, of an insuppressible storm that threatened to take him whole.

“My hand…” she echoed quietly.

Aymeric turned as she rounded the table, but was not prepared for her hands cupping his face, fixing him in place within the grip of blackened claws.

Never had he seen her so close to him, and it revealed to him secrets he had never before noticed.

Her eyes, glowing and bright, were two-toned. Underneath the grey shine was the colour of sand, brown so fair that it was almost white. Her tongue, darting out to wet her lips, was pink and forked—and the scales upon the bridge of her nose were not ebony, but a deep and dark purple. Her proximity brought with her the scent of something fragrant and warm: agarwood, heady and opulent.

Aymeric could stop not leaning in, swaying under her influence for all that his fear held him at bay. He was tempered by her; there could be no other explanation for the rapture he found in the gentle touch of her palm upon his skin.

“We haven’t yet broached the idea of courtship, and you already ask to fast my hand to yours,” the Warrior murmured. Her fingers caressed the side of his countenance, and she lowered her gaze to his lips. Her lashes, dark and long, cast shadows upon her cheeks. “I am not opposed to this. To you."

"I…" Aymeric could think not of the words to say, eloquence lost to him in the flood of emotion that overcame him. "Thank you," he murmured.

Her hands fell from his head, and she took hold of his hand, lifting it. Her fingers curled around his forearm, where her name lay.

She pulled his arm up, bidding him to stand. And so he stood, towering over her, his arm within her grasp. He could silence not the gasp that escaped his lips when she placed his hand to her throat, and closed his fingers around her flesh.

The smile on her countenance was serene, and she looked up at him through her dark lashes.

"Mine Aymeric… where you go, so goes my heart," she murmured, and he could feel her voice against his palm. Each word was a tremor he felt through his hand and within his bones. Her words a claim over him, tying a leash around his willing neck. "If I could not love you, would I ever love at all? Thank not I, when I am equally helpless in your wake."

Aymeric could not hold himself back. "May I kiss you, Warrior?" He asked, gently stroking her throat with his thumb. His name lay unmarred under his touch.

The flash of her eyes drew his eyes from her perfect mouth, even as she said, "You needn't ask."

And so, the au ra lifted her chin and closed her eyes. The gesture was poignant, displaying most conspicuously her trust in him. She stood before him, his hand around her neck, clad in frail silks.

He let go of her throat, and watched as she tipped her head back in a silent act of surrender.

With reverent fingers he ran his fingers through her hair, tucking it around her horns. She leaned into his touch as he stroked the smooth plane of her cheek, and he explored the constellation of scales that framed her countenance so.

Black scales, darker than the night, spiralled down the elegant line of her countenance and neck. The texture of them was comparable to a crocodile's: the surface textured and soft, but pressing down, impenetrable and hard. They flecked her skin in patterns he couldn't understand.

Astrologians would have had names for the stars that she kept upon her skin, and a poet would have had honeyed words to describe this moment; Aymeric had not a thought nor feeling in his mind save for his awe.

She hummed quietly, and it startled him enough from his admiration.

Aymeric leaned in, bending down such that his height no longer towered over hers. Her horns caged his countenance to hers as he drew in closer. He held her gently by her elbow, and she gripped his sleeve tightly. Her breath was cool against him, and he stilled there, an impossible distance spanning their lips.

Two ilms; a hundred thousand fulms.

Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips in a nervous manner; it was here that tension broke and helplessly, he followed after that forked tongue to where it hid between twin petals and pearly teeth. So bidden, he closed the paradoxical distance between them.

Satin, silk and snow; her lips were impossibly soft against his.

Depraved in his selfish hunger, he yearned for more; to taste her tongue against his own, to feel the crush of hers upon his own lips--and so bitterly keen did he feel the need to hold her close, but he remained where he was.

He lingered upon her lips, savouring what closeness she had allowed him. Gently did he caress her arm, and he could feel her hands grip at his shirt. Her small hands were warm against his chest, and she held him steadfast and tight. Ere long, he broke away, and she exhaled slowly.

"Warrior?" Aymeric called out gently.

"Gentle heart," she murmured, opening her eyes. They burned a dazzling silver, the sharp gleam of a sword, and they pierced him to his core. "That is not how you should kiss one that you love."

With a demure show of her great strength did she pull him down to her height, and she kissed him ardently.

Where before she had been silk, she was now steel. She bit into his skin, figuratively and literally, her teeth sharp as she nipped at his skin. It startled him enough to gasp into her mouth, and she laughed into him.

Her arms were around him, holding his greater weight up without struggle nor concern.

He sighed her name into lips, and fell forward with the pull of her fingers in his hair, so ensnared by her thrall.

There was naught he could do but surrender to her, his love and his Light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [adjusts loudspeaker] attention all, Aymeric de Borel has a sharp teeth kink and likes being manhandled. also, he definitely thinks wanting to kiss his lady love is lewd.
> 
> btw I need help. should I continue this + get into the Vault + everything after that or leave it at this cute fluffy end? thanks in advance for your thoughts.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this is just a fluff chapter. I'm delaying the inevitable as much as possible.

"Would I have had the opportunity, I would have sought the blessings of your kin," Aymeric said quietly, "ere I made mine intentions towards you known."

"I have no kin save for the remnants of the Scions, and Alphinaud has no claim over me. You need not seek any blessing save for mine own."

Aymeric gave pause here. "Nevertheless--it feels improper. As if I am not giving you the honour that you most deserve."

"What honour is there to be found in asking for the permission of one who is not the one you intend to wed?" She asked curiously.

"Thy kin will become mine own," Aymeric replied quietly. "Thy blood will be as if mine. As such, I would most dearly want for the acceptance of your kin."

An expression crossed her countenance, a most peculiar one. "I hadn't thought of it in such a way," she revealed offhandedly. "But would it not be given that my heart's other half be the one to complete mine? You need not seek permission. I am yours, as you are mine."

Before him in the faint light from the fireplace, the Warrior's eyes were bright and her lips reddened. She smiled at him, and those pearly teeth were a startling reminder of how they felt against his lips. He looked away, chagrined despite himself.

Mayhap, had he been less pious or strict, he would have taken her to bed the moment he understood that she had returned his feelings. Mayhap, he would have regardless had he not had the weight of his conscious upon his shoulders, reminding him that for all of the delight he could find within the Warrior of Light, he had a responsibility towards his people.

Would he allow himself this moment of happiness when his people yet needed an end to the Dragonsong War? Nay, he would not. Not with the lies that yet festered in the very heart of Ishgard. There could be no peace until the bridge between Dravanian and Ishgardian was rebuilt.

His happiness could come once he had gone to the Vault and spoken with the Archbishop, and achieve finally the conclusion to their millennium-old war.

The Warrior had understood when he had stopped, had pulled away ere he was consumed by her touch. Even now, she sat before him, understanding of his responsibilities and his duties, perfect in her every facet.

She reached out, taking hold of his forearm. She pushed his sleeve up wordlessly, and she traced her name into his skin. Her fingers travelled down those esoteric words, tracing lines in an order more systematic than his feeble attempts at writing her name: left to right, top to bottom.

"Aymeric," she called softly. "Heart of mine, and my dearest friend. Tis becoming most late.” Softly she murmured, an echo of the words he had spoken a bell earlier. “Mayhap we should retire to our rooms lest the dawn kiss the horizon ere we have slept.”

Aymeric closed his hand over hers, running his thumb over the valleys of her knuckles. Reverently, he traced the shape of her fingers.

“--Yes. You are most correct," he agreed quietly.

Yet he moved not, unwilling to take his leave from his soul’s half.

In a few bells, he would depart for the Vault, to confront the Archbishop. He would have his allies at his back; the Warrior and House Fortemps, Lucia and Estinien--but even with such steadfast allies, he had not a single doubt of the difficulty in his self-appointed task. He knew of the struggle that would ensue thereafter, whether or not his father agreed with him.

How did one go about systematically destroying a culture that had stood a millennium long? How had he become the one to shoulder such responsibility, that he would be the one to stand against everything that he had once believed in?

He drew strength from her hand under his, the quiet love that she was willing to reciprocate.

He raised his eyes from her delicate hands to her countenance when she let out a gusty sound, lips parted in a yawn.

The Warrior blinked rapidly, a bashful expression crossing her features. She had raised her other hand to cover her mouth, attempting to stifle any other signs of her lethargy. “Mine apologies--it has been a long day."

And indeed it had. She had defeated Nidhogg and stopped a civil war breaking out within Ishgard's walls within the same day.

"Let me not keep you from your repose any longer, Warrior," Aymeric stated with no little reluctance lurking within his breast. Letting go of her hand, he then sent her a smile. "What is left to say can keep for another day."

Her returning smile was full of sharp teeth and mischief despite the shadows lingering beneath her storm-cloud eyes. "Lead me to bed, my heart," she murmured quietly, and he could feel his countenance burn red at her words.

He would not give her the satisfaction of further embarrassment, and he attempted to tuck away his bashfulness lest it appeared upon his features. " Of course. There should be a room prepared for you, Warrior."

When he stood, she followed, her smaller form shadowing his as he led their way from the dining room to the living quarters.

Through it all, she had her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.

Her warmth was a solid, constant thing at his side, and she peered up at him occasionally. Could one ache for something they had never experienced until that very moment? Dearly, Aymeric wished to have this, to have this every night henceforth: the Warrior at his side, her eyes upon his and her hand held within his own.

It was a selfish wish, one that he could not help but yearn for.

The Warrior was a being that was not to be stifled, after all, despite her mutual interest in being wed. She would surely travel far from his side, her adventurer's spirit guiding her to distant lands.

Once the events of the Vault came to a close… Aymeric would surely be tied ever greater to the walls of Ishgard to reform her, to guide her to a future in which highborn and low alike were masters of themselves.

He must needed content himself with what his heart's half could give him; he needed to give unto Halone his self-serving feelings of possession lest it fostered more obsession.

Caught in his thoughts, he remained oblivious to the Warrior's hand squeezing his arm tightly in an attempt to catch his attention. He became aware once she pulled at his sleeve, pulling him down with yet another casual display of monstrous strength.

The Warrior looked up at him with a fang-filled smile, her sweet countenance holding not a small amount of mischief. "Would it be remiss to share your bed instead?" She asked, words deceptively light.

The au ra was surely as demonic as her appearance; Aymeric choked upon his own breath, full shocked by her risque question. "Excuse me?"

"I don't intend on stealing whatever virtue you yet cling to, but I would most certainly like to take repose in your arms to-night," she continued, as if she had not a single clue of the impropriety of her request. Or the images she painted with her words, of a woman most unholy stealing away worldly pleasures from him.

"That would not be proper," Aymeric managed to say, undoubtably red from the crest of his head to the ends of his toes.

"Is it considered so sinful an act to sleep next to one you love?" She asked. "Despite being fully clothed and not getting up to anything?"

"--For a man and woman, unwed… the act of sharing one's bed is a prominent symbol. It is very much the root of great sin, according to the Holy See." Aymeric replied. "It is why bastards are so vilified."

The Warrior looked most unconvinced, despite the lethargy that yet clung to her countenance. "So it is less sinful when it is between two men, and two women?"

Theoretically, yes. In the scriptures, naught was written about the sanctity of such pairings. Aymeric himself had taken advantage of such lack of scripture in his youth. But admit it he would not.

"That is how it is commonly interpreted," Aymeric replied reluctantly, looking away from the Warrior.

"Is that right?" Her eyes were most keen, storm clouds alight with levin. She suddenly smiled at him, and kept her own counsel, instead reaching up to trace the length of her horns. "Well, in the eyes of your Holy See, am I not an abomination instead of a woman? It would be sin regardless to be mine in any capacity in the eyes of your Halone."

He was stricken by her words, and she pressed herself to his side with eyes blazing with flames great and hungry.

"I believe it is my time to make mine intentions known to you, mine other half." Her words dripped with promise, and her mien the very countenance of temptation. Bejewelled with draconic ebony and the heaven's constellations painting her skin, she drew him in, arrested him and tempered him. "You wish for me to wait to take you, and I shall. I am tired, and so are you. But bar me not from your chambers. In the morrow, you depart to change your people, but to-night, you stay with me."

The Warrior had rendered him parched, mouth arid and indescribably insatiable for something he would not allow himself to partake. The searing touch of her lips to his had merely been a prelude; the sharp cut of her teeth digging into him, digging into his soul, rendered him helpless to her thrall.

To share his bed with his soul's mate, to grant her access to sleep by his side as if she were his wife despite no vows nor ceremony to make it so--it would be scandalous; gluttonous impiety shown by a man sworn to uphold the scriptures. Should anyone find out, that was to say.

She wore him down with her eyes and her words, the soft lightness of her hand upon his arm.

"You are no abomination," Aymeric whispered. He gently cupped her countenance in his hand, stroking the smooth curve of her cheek. "My Halone-granted wish, though temptress and seductress you may be."

"So am I to understand that you are willing to grant me mine intentions?" The au ra asked.

Aymeric was helpless to her, and he leaned in, resting his forehead to hers. "Yes. Needless to say, you are irresistible in spite of the duties that lay in wait in the morrow."

Her smile was felt against his own.

"Forgive me for my lack of repentance. Allow me to bring my heart's half to his rooms, and to lay with him," she murmured softly against his lips. "And only once we have reposed in a cocoon spun with threads of our love, so shall I send him off to battle."

With her small hand in his, she led him to his chambers; and there they would rest until dawn came to bear him away to the Vault.

**Author's Note:**

> Winks and shamelessly promotes the Azem fanzine, The Sun's Journey, that I'm modding @ <https://twitter.com/FFXIVAzemZine>. Applications are closed, but please await future news!


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